


Jesus Loves Me

by OMSP



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic Violence, John is younger than Sherlock, M/M, Melancholy, Priests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMSP/pseuds/OMSP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this AU, Father Holmes befriends a young, struggling musician named John Watson. They strike up an unlikely friendship born of violence. Can the kindly priest help John fight his demons without losing his own soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A bit of Rough

John stood on the outcropping of rocks, a lone figure against a backdrop of gray sky. A wave of coastal fog drifted in, threatening to swallow him whole. Waves battered the rocks at his feet but he had no fear of them. He had another purpose today. He stared out at the unrelenting sea as wave after wave of tears streamed down his face. He came here to say his goodbyes and yet something held him back. He clutched tightly at the box in his arms, not quite ready to let go. He took a deep breath and filled his body with a kind of hard resolve.  
  
Opening up the box, he stared in a kind of morbid fascination at the ashes inside. Amazing to think that the contents of the box had once been a vibrant human being. John started to let his mind wander back to the last time he'd seen him but the pain was still too fresh. With a quick movement, John released the ashes into the sea, sobbing as he did it.  
  
"Goodbye…" he whispered.  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
"Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen."  
  
Ian raised his eyes and looked at Father Holmes. His tongue out slightly as he received the host. John, fascinated, watched the ritual from the back of the chapel. Ian always dragged him to Sunday Mass, though he really had little choice in the matter. He didn't mind. He found the rituals of Catholic mass almost soothing. Leaning back in his chair he continued to stare at the priest.  
  
Father Holmes raised his eyes and caught John staring at him. He smiled at him and tipped his head slightly, acknowledging his presence. He'd seen John come in often. They'd even spoken a few times after the service. He found him to be very intelligent, if a bit rough around the edges. Once in awhile, John would come in with his sunglasses on and wouldn't take them off - it didn't take a genius to figure out it was because he was hiding bruises. The question was who was giving them to him? He shook off the thoughts and continued with the ritual.  
  
\---------  
  
"Ready John?" Ian asked as the service ended.  
  
"Aren't we going to mingle?"  
  
"No… I want to take you home... right now." Ian grabbed John's hand and began leading him out the door. John dragged his feet. He knew what that meant - Ian was 'in the mood'. He should be glad, it had been a long time since they'd had sex. Instead he thought of a million other things he'd rather be doing. But he knew better than to deny Ian. The price was too high.  
  
Back at their flat, Ian quickly shed his clothes and waited for John to do the same. No foreplay again - fucking typical, John thought. It looked as if he'd have to do all the work as well. With a heavy sigh, knowing the consequences, John asked Ian if they could sort of give it a miss for now. He tried claiming a headache because he just honestly was not in the mood.  
  
A stinging slap was his answer. Ian's face was a storm of twisted features as he let loose a string of profanities, all of which were aimed at belittling John. How dare he refuse him! Fucking ugly tease was what he was. John shrank from Ian and cowered against the wall. He should have just given in, he moaned to himself as Ian pummeled him, both in word and with fist. John sobbed and begged Ian to stop, even saying that he'd do anything he wanted, but Ian would have none of it. It was too late.  
  
"I don't want you now you fucking loser. Get the fuck out of here before I kill you," Ian panted, his exertions tiring him out. John was up and out the door as quickly as possible, not stopping to staunch the blood that flowed from his nose. He half-ran, half-stumbled down the block until he reached St. Matthews. He stopped in front of the door seeking comfort and solace and knew of nowhere else to get it. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, noticing the blood for the first time. His face crumpled as fresh tears poured forth. 'Fuck it.' He thought angrily and stepped inside the church.  
  
He looked over to the left of the great chapel and noticed a tiny old lady in black just leaving one of the confessionals. Stifling a sob he made his way to the booth, passing the old lady. She reached out and grasped his arm. Looking down at her he saw compassion in her soft eyes. She relinquished her grasp and slowly made her way to the candles. She lit one for the bruised boy.  
  
John stepped inside the booth, a little bewildered and unfamiliar with the protocol. He rested his head on the wall in front of him. After a minute, a window slid open on his left, startling John. An uncomfortable silence followed before the priest finally spoke.  
  
"My son, what is it?" he asked. He recognised John and took note of the blood drying on his face and hands. His heart lurched as he waited for the boy to tell his story.  
  
John groaned. Where was he supposed to begin?  He looked towards the screen separating him from the priest and gasped softly when he recognized the priest as Father Holmes.  
  
"Um.. Hello Father. I. - I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," John sniffed, pain darting through his face like shards of glass. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, biting back the pain.  
  
"John… What's happened to you? Come... Let's go somewhere more private."  John was lulled by the Father's deep, soothing tones and he allowed himself to be taken to the priest's private office. He guided the boy to the sofa and urged him to rest a moment.  
  
"Let me get you something for your face, John. Wait here."  
  
John leaned back on the sofa and shut his eyes. He briefly entertained the thought of bolting from the room, but an image floated in his mind of the old lady in the chapel grasping his arm reassuringly, and it seemed like a sign that he should stay and let the Father help him. He heard a noise and opened his eyes to see the Father leaning over him, pressing a warm cloth to his face.  
  
"Ouch," he hissed and flinched, pulling away from the kindly priest.  
  
"It's all right John. Let me get you cleaned up a bit and then I'll make you some tea - get you feeling a bit more normal and then we can have a chat."  John relented and as the priest gently wiped away the dried blood from his face, he studied his face. Tiny lines creased his eyes, giving the appearance of a smile about to burst through. And his eyes… He'd never seen such a pale shade of blue. It must have been his full head of hair so dark and brown it almost seemed black in this light that offset them, making them seem bluer than they really were. Reaching up, he touched Father Holmes’ hand that had been cleansing his face and he gently pushed it away, saying that was enough. John felt that if he remained mere inches from the man’s face much longer, he might kiss his full lips, and that wouldn't do at all.  
  
Father Holmes quickly rose from the sofa and walked to the sideboard to pour some tea for the two of them. He was glad for the break - John's intense gaze had unsettled him. He was unprepared for such scrutiny. It made him uncomfortable and he was unsure why. He felt a stirring deep inside of himself that he quickly dismissed as his inherent need to care for an underdog. It was obvious to him what happened, and at last he knew who had been abusing the poor boy. He felt a slight stab of shame that it should be a Catholic treating him in such a way.  
  
He returned to his seat next to John and handed him his cup. "Now John. I can see that you have some problems. Am I right in assuming that Ian did this to you?"  
  
"Yes," John replied, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
"Why does he do it, John? More importantly though, why don't you get away from him?"  
  
"I have nowhere else to go Father. Ian looks out for me. He…"  John's voice cracked. "He never used to hit me."  
  
Father Holmes sighed. Of course they 'never used to hit.' It was an old story, regardless of gender. He set his cup down and reached for John's hand. He said nothing, merely waited for John to continue when he was ready.  
  
"When I first met him, I had such a crush. He was really handsome, and friendly. He took pity on a creepy little kid skulking about the halls at uni."  John went on to explain that although he'd had a tendency to fancy the odd boy at school, outwardly he overcompensated for this fact by seeing rather a lot of girls instead. “I, uh, got a bit of a reputation as a ladies man, if you can believe it,” he told the priest. But Ian was actually his first, in every sense of the word.  
  
"I can't explain it Father, I know your religion frowns on homosexuality. You're probably looking for an excuse to get me, a filthy faggot, out of your office."  Tears threatened to spill again. Sherlock simply squeezed his hand and waited for him to go on.  
  
"Father, he made uni bearable for me. I came here from Aldershot, not knowing a soul and Ian was there. I love him, sick bastard that he is,"  he sighed. "Actually, I wonder who the sick bastard really is: him for hitting me or me for letting him."  
  
"John, you don't have to put up with that. There are places for abused people who will..."  
  
"I may be abused but what do you think will happen to me at some halfway house when they find out my 'boyfriend' is my abuser? I'll tell you what will happen: In the middle of the night, some asshole will creep over to my cot and clamp a hand over my mouth and with breath that could choke a horse, whisper to me that if I scream, he'll slit my throat. After that he'll rape me. No, been there, done that, it's not an option."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Oh you don't understand. I don't know why I came here. You've just always been so nice to me, heathen that I am." John stood up and tried to let go of the priest’s hand, but he wouldn't release his grip.  
  
"John please let me help you," he pleaded. He fought back an urge to pull the young man into an embrace, surprised by the ferocity of the need.  
  
"There's nothing you can do. I wish I hadn't come. I'm sorry. Let me go... I've got to get out of here." John wrenched his hand free and disappeared through the door. Father Holmes leaned his head back and closed his eyes, expelling a sigh. He knew he should go after John - he knew he was heading back to Ian. But he also knew that John would not accept any help until he was ready for it. Today was a good step forward for the boy - for a boy is what he truly was - and he hoped that the next step would be less painful for him.


	2. Lost Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Holmes tries to help again.

John perched on the makeshift stage all alone. The pub was dingy, to say the least, but he'd played in worse. At least they were paying him for this little gig - his first professional one! He sang his heart out to the punters who weren't interested, but he didn't notice. Once he began strumming his guitar he seemed to get lost inside the lyrics. His repertoire was growing and even beginning to include some original songs. He was nervous about these in particular because they were so very personal to him and he wasn't sure anyone would 'get' them. He needn't have worried, no one seemed to pay him any mind.  
  
One patron of the pub sat in the back and marveled. When John's voice filled the smoky room, he became entranced and the only thing he could focus on was the boy on stage with a guitar and a voice. Father Holmes listened intently to John's entire set enraptured, never daring to take his eyes off of the singer. He had come tonight out of curiosity. Since their chat a few weeks ago John had become rather distant but he still showed up on Sundays with Ian and Sherlock deduced that John was there of his own accord now rather than by force. He made a special effort to talk to him after services and that was how he'd found out about this performance. John had mentioned once before that he played guitar, and so he became intrigued. Ian had casually mentioned the gig in conversation, snidely remarking that it was his first and probably last professional show.  
  
"It's not the sort of place I'd want to play, that's for sure. I bet they get one look at him and toss him out in the street. I don't think I'm even going to go."  At this, John's face had fallen and he looked crushed but he didn't say a word. The priest managed to find out the location and thought he might go along and check it out.  
  
And now here he was, completely blown away by the talent oozing from the lad onstage. Surely he wasn't the only one in the pub amazed by John's performance. He had a look around the pub but most of the people there were too engaged in their drinks to pay much attention to the talent. Off in a corner though he spotted a rather short, rotund kid who clearly seemed to enjoy what John was offering. Well at least someone appreciates him, he thought.  
  
After the show, John exited the stage to scattered applause and went straight to the corner where the stocky kid rose to embrace him. Father Sherlock made his way past the tables cluttered with empty pint glasses over to John so that he could tell him how wonderful he was.  
  
"John!" he called.  
  
John looked up and was startled to see Father Holmes weaving his way towards him through drunken louts and scattered chairs. He was taken aback by how different he looked in his 'civilian' clothing. No priestly vestments tonight. Father Sherlock wore simple black jeans and a navy button-down shirt that emphasized his pale skin. His thick curls flopped down over his forehead, causing him to occasionally flick his head to shake it out of his eyes. John was at a loss for words. The man was stunning.  
  
"John, I'm so glad I came tonight. Your show was brilliant! I had no idea you could sing so well," Sherlock said after he reached him. "I'm absolutely blown away. You were luminous. So moving!"  
  
John managed to grin and blush, "Thank you Father, I can't believe you came!"  
  
"Please, just call me Sherlock." He smiled as he gestured towards the booth. "May I join you?"  
  
"Of course! Erm… Sherlock then, this is an old mate of mine, Stamford. Stamford and I went to school in Aldershot and I haven't seen him since - but then I bumped into him today near Lewisham of all places. Isn't that wild?"  
  
"Pleasure to meet you, Stamford. You can call me Sherlock as well if you like." Sherlock slid into the booth next to John and flashed a wide smile at his friend while shaking his hand. He offered to buy the next round. However, Stamford said that it was his turn and went off to procure some lager. John looked at the priest.  
  
"Isn't it a little late for you to be out," he hesitated briefly, "Sherlock - that's hard to get used to, I feel strange not calling you Father."  
  
Sherlock laughed at John. "I'm only 28 John, not over the hill just yet. I think I get my dentures when I turn 30, or so I've heard. And just because I'm a priest doesn't mean I'm not allowed the odd night out."  
  
John returned the laugh. "I see. Well what brings you here tonight then? Surely you didn't sort of just come here to see me play…"  
  
"Of course I did John!  I've been worried about you, you know… since our talk. I haven't been able to think of much else to be quite honest."  
  
John shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with the direction their friendly chat was taking and he was relieved when Stamford returned with pints. All three sat in the booth for several more pints and banter back and forth. Sherlock discovered Stamford played a bass guitar when he wasn’t busy being a med student and made an off-the-cuff remark about how the two of them should join up and play together. He reckoned it would be a laugh anyway. Both young men grinned and said they would give it some serious thought before erupting in a fit of giggles.  
  
"Fancy us playing together!" laughed John. "I never said more than eight words to him all through school and now here we are, getting pissed - err sorry Father, and considering starting a band. Too fuc - oops - darn surreal for me!" And with that he downed the last dregs in his glass and put his head on Sherlock's shoulder, his body shaking with laughter.  
  
Sherlock smiled, glad to see the lad enjoying himself. Of course, Ian was nowhere to be seen and he figured that might have something to do with John's spirits. Having John lean against him like this felt good, almost reassuring. He was about to put his arm around the boy when John jumped as if he'd been burnt. He had suddenly realized he'd been leaning against a priest. He sat up quickly and reached for his cigarettes.  
  
"Do you smoke Sherlock?"  
  
"No. I had to give them up at the seminary. Sacrifice and all that."  
  
"I was just forgetting that you are a priest and now you've reminded me again. You really must stop doing that. Your god will strike me down I suppose if I offer you a smoke?  Shall I tempt you?"  John grinned a wicked grin and waved the cigarette pack around in front of Sherlock. When Sherlock reached for them, John looked triumphant, until Sherlock crushed them in his hand.  
  
"I gave them up,"  he repeated.  
  
John looked at Sherlock, unsure of whether to be angry at the loss of a perfectly good pack of cigarettes or to be angry at himself for flirting with a priest. It was a rather silly thing to do, destroying the whole pack. He decided to pretend it didn't happen. He didn't have to worry about any awkwardness because Stamford chose that moment to look rather ill and rush for the restrooms.  
  
"Oh dear, can't handle his lager," said John. "I had better go and look after him. Father - I mean Sherlock - thanks so much for coming to my show. It really means a lot to me that you came."  Sherlock stood to let John out of the booth. Impulsively he reached and took John in his arms giving him a tight hug.  
  
"I'm glad to see you in better spirits John. Could I offer you some unsolicited advice though?" Sherlock asked and then waded ahead without waiting for an answer. “Please think about getting away from Ian. I do not like to see you hurt. He is not worth it.”  
  
John broke away. "Father," he spat the word out. "I'm surprised you'd have that attitude. Aren't we all God's children? At least, according to your religion anyway. How can you stand there and say someone isn't worth it?  I find that a bit hypocritical."  
  
"John, he hits you and humiliates you for his own amusement. I've witnessed the latter. To me, that's the lowest you can go short of murder. John I like you, I worry about you and your safety and I'd like to see you get him out of your life."  
  
John's face took on a stony expression. "Father, if you're looking for someone to save, you're looking in the wrong place. I'm a lost cause."    
  
John walked away.  
  



	3. Beaten

John stood in front of the mirror, locked in the bathroom. The pounding on the door drowned out by the sound of his own blood rushing to his head. It echoed in his ears as he stared, transfixed, at the purplish bruise forming under his left eye. He studied the discoloration with detachment, unwilling to give in to the threat of tears that bubbled under his stony façade. He wondered if his inability to cry meant that he was getting used to it.  
  
With a sigh, he reached for the cover stick and began to apply it, taking care to cover up his bruise as best he could. Ian had stopped beating on the door and from the sound of the front door slamming, John assumed he was off down the pub. Good, he thought. He picked up the liner and began the delicate task of enhancing his denim-blue eyes. He winced only once and then steeled himself against the pain. Once he finished, he stepped back from the mirror and gave himself the once-over, deciding that it was barely noticeable. He put on his large black sunglasses anyway, just in case.  
  
John poked his head out of the bathroom door and listened for sounds of his lover. All he heard was a clock ticking, drumming through the silence in the flat. He stepped out and grabbed his guitar case from the floor of the hallway. As he looked into the sitting room he saw the message light was blinking on the answering machine. With a quick glance at the front door he went in the room and checked the messages.  
  
"…John this is Stamford. I'll meet you at the Hobgob at 7, I'm bringing Anderson so you two can meet."  
  
“ _Ahh…_ ”  thought John. “ _So that was what set Ian off. He must have checked messages as well._ ”  John had been spending an inordinate amount of time with Stamford. Both of them had decided that the idea of them playing together sounded pretty good on this side of sobriety and so they were going to give it a go. Ian disliked Stamford and John had had to endure endless tirades about the time he spent with him.  
  
"…This message is for John. This is Father Holmes. Please ring me at 0171-8365-987 if convenient. If inconvenient, ring anyway."  
  
John frowned. Father Holmes was ringing him up now? He thought of the priest and recalled the image of him maneuvering through the pub and walking towards him dressed in simple clothing. He smiled at the thought, remembering that he'd felt a stirring in the old nether regions when he saw him. He picked up the phone, fully intending to call him back but something stopped him. What were his words to him? "I'd like to see you get him out of your life…" What the hell did he know? Bloody priest knew nothing about his feelings for Ian. It was… too complicated. He replaced the phone in its cradle, picked up his guitar and left to go meet Stamford.  
  
\----------------  
  
Sherlock hung up the phone. He hated leaving messages on machines; he never knew what to say, preferring to text instead. He hoped John would call him back. He had gotten little sleep since that night when he saw John perform, unable to get the image of John walking away with his shoulders hunched and head down. There was something furtive and secretive about his stance that worried the priest. Whenever he was unable to sleep he found that going into the chapel and praying soothed him. He prayed for John's soul and he prayed for the strength to help save it. What he didn't pray for, indeed what he refused to come to terms with, were his own feelings regarding the boy. At some level, he understood that he felt attracted to him, but he shrugged it off as merely being attracted to John's intense vulnerability - that his natural compassion drove him to want to help him.  
  
Perhaps his inability to sleep lately was a product of his inner core trying to tell him that it was more than that vulnerability that attracted him. That John had the sort of eyes you could get lost in. That it might just be a bit of heaven to trace his finger across John's beautiful lips. That he might dare to think about what those lips would feel like against his own. Perhaps that was why he felt the need to pray - to drive out such wicked thoughts, to purge them from his mind.  
  
With a sigh Sherlock decided he needed to go for a walk to try to clear his mind. He slipped into his coat, tucking a scarf under the lapels and stepped onto the sidewalk.  
  
\----------------------  
  
Stamford introduced John to Anderson, their new drummer - a clean-cut fellow from London. John reached out his hand but his smile froze on his face as he recognized a familiar look in Anderson's eyes. He'd seen it enough times in Ian's eyes whenever he beat him.  
  
Anderson looked at John with disdain. "You didn't say he was a fucking faggot, Stamford."  
  
"Anderson don't be rude, we just need you to play the drums, that's all."  
  
"Whatever,"  said the drummer as he walked away without shaking John's hand. John took a deep breath.  
  
"Are you sure about him, Stamford? That wasn't a good start."  
  
"Well, he's all I can find right now. Maybe after we get some gigs under our belts we can look to replace him."  
  
"I suppose," replied John, not thrilled at the prospect. "Well, let's get some drink in our systems and discuss a set list then." He smiled at Stamford and led the way to the bartender. They were soon engrossed in both their pints and a lively discussion as to which songs would be best for the sort of dives they would have to play. A shadow fell across the table.  
  
"John." Ian's voice was hard. "What are you doing here?" He flashed a nasty look at Stamford. John could tell from the slur in his words that Ian was very drunk. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.  
  
"Ian, I was just…"  
  
"I don't give a toss what you're doing. I want you home. Now." He lurched into the table and John flinched. Stamford looked on in wide-eyed disbelief as Ian raised his arm, meaning to backhand John's face. Ian laughed as he watched John flinch, as if it amused him to see the results of the power he held over the younger man. He lowered his arm.  
  
John looked apologetically at Stamford and rose from the table, quickly making his way to the door, followed less gracefully by Ian. Stamford was left looking at an empty table.  
  
When they stepped outside, Ian shoved him hard and John fell onto the sidewalk. The next few moments were a blur. All he saw a were pair of feet rushing towards Ian's and they stopped abruptly when Ian was slammed into the wall of the pub. He looked up from the ground and saw the back of Sherlock's head as he held Ian against the wall by the throat. He called over his shoulder, "Run John. Go to the church. I'll be along shortly."  
  
Needing no more urging, he picked himself up and ran towards the direction of Sherlock's sanctuary.  
  



	4. At Your Door

John leaned against the altar, staring up at the image of Jesus on his cross, painted blood dripping rivulets from his crown of thorns. He scoffed, “I guess you had it worse.”  
  
There was a soft shuffling noise from the back of the church. John stiffened, knowing it was Sherlock but he didn’t turn around. Shutting his eyes, he drew a deep breath.  
  
“I know what you’re going to say, Sherlock. You can save it, I’ve heard it all before and not just from you.”  
  
“What does that tell you then John?” John jumped – the priest had come up on him silently and stood directly behind him. Sherlock gave John’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze that John shrugged off.  
  
“Obviously I’m not the only one who wants to help you.”  
  
“WHY? Why do you want to help me so much? Huh? I’m not a catholic, I don’t even believe in God anymore!” He spat out these last words like so much venom. Angry tears fell from his eyes. “I’m not one of you so why do you care what happens to me?”  
  
“John look at me. Turn around and look at me.”  Sherlock's voice was ragged. Reluctantly, John turned and faced him. “I don’t care what your religious beliefs are, for that is your own decision and I’m not trying to bring you to the Church. I’m trying to save you from one of my own brethren. It pains me greatly to know that a Catholic man goes home and unleashes a nasty, vile side of himself on you. It shakes me to the very foundation of my soul." Sherlock's breath caught and he looked away, pained.  
  
"If you want the absolute truth, I don't know why I care so much.”  
  
John remained silent, taking in what the priest had said. Reaching out, he grazed his fingertips along Sherlock’s stubbled cheek. He held his gaze for a few moments, his liquid eyes delving into Sherlock’s as if they would tell him the truth.    
  
“So what did you do to Ian then?” he asked, breaking the silence.    
  
Sherlock smiled sheepishly. “I umm… well I sort of held him against the wall for a bit, and gave him my best glare. He was having trouble breathing though so I had to ease up.” John cackled at the image of Ian cowed by a priest. It gave him some satisfaction.  
  
“In all seriousness though, I think you should stay here tonight John. When I finally let him go, he was not very, what’s the word… pleasant about it all.”  To his surprise, John agreed.  
  
Sherlock settled John in a tiny guest room. John curled up on the cot and clutched the blanket close seeking to drown himself in the comfort of its warmth. As Sherlock turned to leave, John whispered, “Don’t leave… please Sherlock… stay with me, just ‘til I fall asleep?” Smiling, Sherlock made himself comfortable and tucked the blanket around the tired boy. It did not take before John was asleep allowing Sherlock free reign to study him. He reflected on the evening’s events as he took in tiny details such as the fading bruises that dappled John’s skin. He had to fight the urge to gather the sleeping form in his arms and protect him. He prayed that night. He prayed for John’s soul, for Ian’s and… for his own.  
  
\-----------------------  
  
 _Several months later…_  
  
“Perfect!  Got it in one!”  John bounced around the tiny studio, filled with a frenetic energy that made Stamford smile. Despite the rows with Anderson, John seemed much happier these days. Of course he knew it was the fact that Ian was out of his life that brightened John up like a tremendous weight lifted off of his shoulders. Stamford had been horrified that night Ian showed up at the pub and he remained grateful to the priest who quite literally saved John from such a monster. Stamford had felt protective of John ever since that night and had a sort of kindred spirit feeling for the priest as well.    
  
They were finishing up in the studio, having just recorded some of the most brilliant music ever, according to John, and they were all smiles, even Anderson. All that was left was to turn in the tapes and wait for fame.  
  
“Not joining us for drinks John?” asked Stamford when he noticed John packing up his gear.  
  
“No.. I’ve got to run to the flat and change before I meet Sherlock. I can’t wait tell him we’re finished with the album – although I’m a bit nervous for him to hear it. I wonder what he thought of ‘For Him,’” he mused, thinking of the success of their first release and wondering why he cared so much what Sherlock thought.  
  
“Same way I do I reckon. A song about a bloody poof. Can’t tell you how proud I am to have that one in my repertoire,” chimed Anderson, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. John rolled his eyes, not even bothering to get sucked into that argument again.  
  
“Anyway… I’m late.” He hugged Stamford and pointedly ignored Anderson as he left the room.  
  
\--------------------------  
  
“ _Message received at 9.50 p.m. on Thursday, the 23rd:  ‘Hey motherfucker, I'm after you. I know where you live._ ” John sat, stunned as he played his messages. His first thought was Ian. After all this time the bastard had decided to plummet back into his life. He glanced nervously around the flat but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. All the same he decided to be a little early meeting Sherlock.  
\--------  
  
“Are you sure it’s Ian, John?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Well… no I’m not. The voice sounded distorted, like they were altering it. But who else would do something that sick?”  
  
“Well, you’re making a name for yourself you know. Your single’s quite big at the moment. Maybe it’s a fan?”  
  
“Oh Jesus – err sorry.. I hope it’s just a fan – still it’s sort of creepy.”  
  
“Well, for your own sake, maybe you shouldn’t stay at your flat tonight.”  
  
John fidgeted. “No. You’re right, it’s probably just a fan – I’ll lock the doors, it will be fine. Hey, you’re falling behind on your drink there.” John grinned nervously as he gulped the last of his pint. Sherlock laughed and the conversation turned to the band’s first album. The genial priest smiled contentedly as John prattled on into the wee hours. Before they parted, Sherlock restated his offer to let John stay with him but again he refused. Sherlock felt a tinge of regret but let it go. Giving him a hug, he sent him on his way.  
  
\------------------  
  
John eyed the blinking light of the answering machine nervously, almost afraid of it. With a shaky hand he pushed the button, and listened…  
  
“ _I will fuck you up the ass and I will sneak into your room and cut your cock off and stuff it in my mouth and chew it up with my little teeth._ ”  
  
With a gasp, John was back out the door. He tried Stamford’s flat but got no answer. Anderson was out of the question. He was really reluctant to depend on Sherlock yet again.... but he didn’t want to be alone. So he found himself on Sherlock’s doorstep once more.  
  



	5. I Want You

Sherlock held John as he wept. He stroked his hair, remaining silent as the sobs racked his body. He marveled at the slightness of John’s frame, how fragile he felt in his arms as if he might break at the lightest touch. He felt a fierce protectiveness towards him as he gathered John up and helped him back to his rectory. He swallowed hard has John’s fingers curled around his waist, holding on.

\---

Returning from the kitchen with steaming mugs of Earl Grey, he handed one to John who accepted it gratefully. He didn’t take a sip though, just held the cup, savouring the warmth instead. He was always so cold. John looked up at Sherlock.  
  
“I’m so sorry.” Tears spilled again through his long lashes. “I shouldn’t run to you all the time. I-“  
  
“John do be quiet.” Sherlock sat down next to John, taking the cup from his shaking hands. “You’re very special to me and I want to help you. What happened tonight? You were fine when I left you.”  
  
“There was another nasty message on my machine. I don’t know who is doing this but it’s sick! They said they would sneak into my room, cut my… erm... thing off and do all sort of wicked things with it. This one sounded like a girl!  It can’t be Ian doing this, he’s not that creative.”  He squeezed his hands together, wringing them. “Sherlock, I’m scared. I didn’t want to stay home. Stamford wasn’t home – he would just laugh at me anyway.”  John faced the priest and grabbed his hands. “But you wouldn’t laugh at me, Sherlock. You wouldn’t laugh…”  
  
Sherlock felt a surge of emotion when John turned his eyes to his. How could anyone want to hurt this boy?  He felt anger at God for letting so much pain into John’s life. Was he being punished for his sexual preferences? Sherlock believed strongly in the creed that all are equal in the eyes of the Lord, but he felt that belief sorely tested when his God let John suffer so much. He felt compassion and love for this tenderest of souls who wanted nothing more out of life than to be free of pain.  
  
“No John, I wouldn’t laugh at you. How could I?” He reached out and pulled John to him. He cupped John’s chin and looked into his eyes. Impulsively he placed a soft kiss on his forehead. For just a moment he regarded this pale, trembling boy in his arms with the eyes so filled with pain and fear. But all thought left him when he swiftly crushed his lips to John’s, overwhelmed with a passion of such intensity that he was blindsided by it. He had to know what it felt like to kiss John. He had to feel those incredible lips on his own.    
John gasped; completely shocked but he was in such an emotional state that he began to respond anyway, needing this kind of comfort because it was all he knew. He curled his fingers through the beautiful priest’s thick curls. Sherlock’s lightly stubbled chin was felt against his sensitive skin. Sherlock's hands held John's head as he explored his mouth, shivering at the electric touch of their tongues. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a fear swept through the priest.  
  
“No!”  Sherlock broke the kiss and roughly shoved John away. “Oh God what have I done?” He covered his face with his hands, overcome with guilt and shame. John sat in stunned silence, staring at the priest.  
  
Sherlock struggled to regain control of his emotions. He couldn’t look at John, couldn’t face the betrayal that must be in his eyes. How could he take advantage of John’s vulnerability like that? What came over him?  Several truths came home to him in those brief moments – his attraction to John was more than he let himself believe. He was fooling himself if he denied that. He had answered this attraction with prayer and denial. Well he could deny it no longer. He loved John. He wanted John. He needed John. But the awful truth of the matter was, he still loved God more. Perhaps this was a test of his will and if so, it was a test he meant to pass. He lowered his hands and faced John.  
  
“I’m so sorry, John. I had no right to do that; indeed I was wrong to do that. I took advantage of you in your state and I deeply regret that.”  
  
John moved closer. Now it was his turn to comfort the priest. He reached for Sherlock’s hand only to have Sherlock pull away.  
  
“Sherlock… please… it’s okay. I – I want you to kiss me.”  
  
“But I don’t want to kiss you anymore,” the priest hissed, guilt and shame lingering in his voice. “I’m sorry John, but I am a priest. I cannot allow myself to feel anything for you beyond love for a good friend. Anything more and I become a hypocrite, and worse – an abomination.”  
  
“Is that what you think I am?” John’s voice shook. “A fucking abomination? YOU kissed ME ‘Father’!”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. “I think you’d better get some sleep, John. I’ll look into your voicemail problem in the morning.”  He stood quickly and left the room, leaving John alone and crying softly on the sofa.


	6. Shattered

Shattered by the rejection from Sherlock, John sought solace in unlikely places; at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, in the arms of the faceless people who flooded their gigs – male, female, it didn’t matter as long as they took his mind off of Sherlock.  
  
The life of a rock star meant the availability of a vast array of drugs and John availed himself of as many kinds as he could get in his efforts to get the cursed priest out of his head. But every face that passed before him in his bed reminded him of some way of Sherlock’s tousled black hair, or the deep rumble of his voice. When John poured himself into whomever happened to be handy, he imagined it was Sherlock he was touching. It was Sherlock’s lips he kissed, Sherlock’s pale skin pressed to his. He imagined that it was Sherlock knelt before him just now, gingerly sucking his cock. He looked down through drug-fogged eyes and smiled as his eyes met Sherlock’s piercing blue ones. He blinked, the image cleared, and John was staring down at some girl with dark hair and gray-green eyes as she worked him. He gazed groggily around the room and discovered he was up against a wall in a dressing room, trousers dropped to his ankles, sweat drying on his face from the gig. Shutting his eyes he let himself drift back into fantasyland. When he came, he quickly pushed the fangirl away and she left, disappointed and a little pissed off but at least she had a story to tell.  
  
John spied the pile of coke on the table and was helping himself to some more when Stamford and Anderson walked in.  
  
“John, haven’t you had enough?” Stamford asked, concern in his voice.  
  
“Aw shutup, Mike. Go away.”  
  
“Well at least pull your trousers up John, you’re a mess,” sighed Stamford as he left the room leaving Anderson alone with John.  
  
“Yeah fairy-boy. Give over and let us have some of that.”  
  
“Fuck off, Anderson. Get your own.” John was trembling, partly with rage, partly from cocaine. He despised Anderson and felt angry at Stamford for leaving him alone with him. He leaned over and sniffed up the last bits of dusty powder before Anderson could get near it.  
  
“You wanker! I paid for some of that!”  
  
“Should have got here sooner than, dickhead.”  
  
John didn’t even see it coming. Anderson backhanded him across the face, sending droplets of blood spattering over the floor. John clutched his face as a steady stream of blood poured from his nose.  
  
“Fight back you little faggot! Hit me!” Anderson taunted, knowing John wouldn’t. John curled up on the floor, steeling his body for more. He seemed almost resigned to it and this infuriated Anderson. All Anderson wanted was for John to show a little backbone – to ‘act like a man’. He wasn’t really mad about the coke. He was pissed off at being mistaken for a fag because of his bandmates. He kicked John but John didn’t feel it. After the first blow he escaped. His thoughts fled to Sherlock and his mind focused on every intimate detail it could recall from their one and only kiss. He recalled what it felt like to be held by him, those deceptively strong arms that he could nestle into and feel safe from pain. Even as the tears fell from his eyes, he smiled.  
  
Anderson was about to deliver another kick after seeing a ghost of a smile on John’s lips. “ _The sadist! He likes it! Fucking freak!_ ”’ he thought murderously. Stamford, however, gave a yell as he tackled Anderson to the ground.  
  
“That’s fucking it! How dare you - you fucking asshole!” Stamford shouted as he grappled with Anderson. He managed to pin him and his eyes blazed as he glared at the temperamental drummer. “You’re out of the band – do you hear me? Out! Get out!” Stamford let him go.  
  
“That’s just fine anyway you bloody poofs – both of you! You’ll never make it anyway.” With a final sneer he left the room.  
  
Stamford carefully lifted John onto the sofa. John still had not said a word which was surprising. He knew that John’s words could wound more deeply than any suckerpunch. He was about to go in search of something to wipe the blood that still flowed from his nose when John finally spoke.  
  
“Mike?” His voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
“I’m here, John. Are you all right – silly question, of course you’re not… Is there anything I can get you?”  
  
“No. I’m fine.” He wadded up his sleeve and held it to his nose. John felt a dagger of clarity poke through his foggy thoughts, and he remembered something. “Mike… I just remembered… Greg Lestrade rang me up before the gig and said he was free from that other band – Metro? Was it? Since you’ve just fired Anderson, why don’t you go call Greg.”  
  
“Always thinking about the band, John. Anderson just beat the living shit out of you and you’re worried about getting Lestrade in the band?”  
  
“I’m fine! Goddamnit Stamford. The band is all I have now.” He turned away, closing the subject.

\-----------------  
  
Sherlock spent nearly every waking hour pent up in the tiny cell he called his bedroom. His knees were bruised from hours spent on them in deep prayer. He punished himself brutally for his slip with John. Try as he might though, John stayed at the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t forget the ecstasy he’d felt with him – an ecstasy he’d never felt in his relationship with God and he began to question whether it was right of God to expect priests to deny themselves simple human pleasures. Did he love God any less because of his feelings for John? Why did he have these feelings for John anyway? Homosexuality was an abomination in God’s eyes – and yet… it had felt so natural when he kissed John. It felt wonderful – but because it felt wonderful, Sherlock realised what he was doing was wrong in God’s eyes and pushed John away. He couldn’t forget the look of anguish and torment in John’s eyes at that moment; it haunted him even now. How could he just thrust the boy aside like that? John looked to him for help and all he’d done was take advantage of his vulnerability in the worst way possible. He betrayed John with that kiss and he knew he could never be forgiven.  
  
When he wasn’t on his knees, he was subtly following John’s career. From some of the pictures and interviews he’d seen, it looked as though John was doing well but he still had a sort of haunted look in his eyes. He secretly liked to believe that it was because of him, but whenever that thought crept into his conscious mind, he pushed it away and returned to his prayers, meting out more punishment for his wicked thoughts.  
  
As time passed, his contempt for his weakness grew less. He’d had no contact with John for nearly a year and time had eased some of the pain he felt. He’d confessed his sin to another priest, a good friend, and they had a long discussion about it. His friend said that above all else, a priest is only human and not immune from temptation. He said to look on it as a test of his will, and that he’d obviously passed. John was looked after and it was time to put away the guilt and shame and move on with his work and his life. That was just what he intended to do.


	7. You Didn't Break Me

John sat at the counter, wearily subdued as Simon, a journalist from NME plied him with alcohol and questions.  
  
“So what happened with Anderson?”  
  
“We just couldn’t get on and he left the band. We’ve got Greg with us now and the band’s never sounded better.” He gave the journalist a look that meant he would say no more on the subject. “Next question?”  
  
Without blinking an eye, Simon went on. “I heard you’ve received some death threats?”  
  
John shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. "Yeah, we weren't ex-directory. That was the one thing we forgot to do, so as soon as ‘For Him’' went ballistic, I started getting death threats. Basically, I had these 'I know where you live, motherfucker' ones and, 'I'm going to come and get you.' Although I did have one girl who spoke a phrase into a karaoke keyboard and played it to me over the phone, that was to do with coming into my room, cutting off my cock and shoving it up my arse. That was the general tone of what was happening at that point."  
  
"I said far too much back then. I was so cocky and arrogant," admitted John in a cloud of smoke. "I only meant to come across as honest. I think that was part of the problem. I was growing up in public and saying things that most bands wouldn't dare say about themselves, things which could be detrimental. I also think that when there's something so blatantly hedonistic and sexual, people hone in on it and make more of it than there is." John left out that his life had become a constant, blurry party that he vaguely recalled. Half the time he never even knew who he was speaking to.    
  
“So you found yourself unprepared for all that success would bring…?  And in true rock’n’roll style you sought your solace in drink and drugs?”  
  
“Yes. It reached a point where I just couldn't sleep any more," he recalled. "I was tearing wallpaper off the walls and waking Greg and Stamford at six in the morning, having panic attacks. I think I really, really desperately wanted to be rock'n'roll, and I think we took our souls and bodies to an extreme and then realised we couldn't do it any more.”  
  
“When did you realize you had to stop?”  
  
John reflected for a moment. Fucking hell – they’d played onstage with David Bowie to 20,000 people and he could barely remember it. "It was on the last tour in Britain, the one that ended at Brixton," he decided after some consideration. "By that point, we'd left a trail of blood and spunk all over the country, and we realised that we really had to calm down a bit."  
  
Halfway through his third Bloody Mary, John pontificated, "Success doesn't necessarily change the art of it all. I can understand people being suspicious, but I really want this band to be more than just a footnote in the history of rock. I want us to be significant, and hopefully to have brought something to music that helps the development of it. I think when people hear the new record they're realise how far we're trying to push it."  John gulped the last of his drink. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go find someone.”  He shook Simon’s hand and left the bar.  
  
Out on the street, John straightened the McQueen tie he’d put on before his interview and strode purposefully towards his next destination, all the while fighting a strong urge to run the other way. But he couldn’t. He had to do this if he wanted to get on with his life.

\--------------

Sherlock crossed the parapet on his way to the confessionals. He straightened his vestments and was about to step into the tiny booth when he stopped dead in his tracks. A glimpse of a shadow moving had caught his eye and he looked up to see John standing in the doorway of the church. He was breathtaking.  
  
“Hello Father.”  
  
In a few quick strides Sherlock was at John’s side and he took him in his arms. The emotions he felt overwhelmed his sensibilities as he crushed the smaller man to his heart.  
  
“John, John… I can’t believe it!” His smile lit his face like a flame held too close. He held John out at arm’s length and looked him over. “After all this time, you still look so wonderful.”  
  
John remained silent, choking on his own emotions; unable to grasp that he was in the arms of his Sherlock. Sherlock glanced around the church and for once was glad of its low attendance. It was totally empty. Still it wouldn’t do to be seen hugging the boy right there in the chapel.  
  
John followed him back into the same room he’d been in the last time they saw each other. It hadn’t changed much. Cross on the wall, books on the shelves, little else but a sofa and a desk. He breathed in deep, inhaling Sherlock’s musky scent along with the musty odour of the old building. Feeling a bit unsteady on his feet he took a seat on the sofa.  
  
“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”  
  
“The thought did cross my mind - as soon as I saw you actually. John I…”  
  
“No let me start… please.”  Sherlock waited. “When I walked here, I fully intended to sort of walk in and look magnificent to sort of show you that you didn’t break me.”  
  
“John I never meant…”  
  
“Shhh. I know you never meant to. I realised that as soon as I saw you. I was about to turn around and leave when you saw me. And then you came to me, and held me… I never felt so safe.”  A veil of tears welled up in his large eyes. “Sherlock, I’ve missed you so much!”  John broke down, sobbing. “I love you… I know it’s wrong, I know you love your God above all else.” His voice hitched and he slipped to the floor, on his knees before the priest. He reached for Sherlock’s hands. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s lap.  
  
Sherlock trembled, his breath ragged. He gripped John’s hands tightly. Bending down he gently kissed the top of his head. John looked up, his lips mere inches from Sherlock’s. They looked at each other for what seemed an eternity before Sherlock reached up and caressed John’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear drop with his thumb. Moving in swiftly, Sherlock kissed him again with a passion that had had too much time to build up. He reached for John and held him close as their lips mingled and explored. At the first touch of their tongues, Sherlock inhaled sharply. Through all of this John cried, unable to believe this was happening. As he felt Sherlock’s arms envelop him he gasped.  
  
“Are- Are you going to shove me away again, Sherlock?”  
  
“No.” He slid his hand through John’s soft blond hair. “I’m not going to make that mistake again.”  
  
John almost hated to ask but he needed reassurance. “What about…”  
  
Sherlock gave John a sly grin. “Fuck it,” he said before scooping him up and laying him on the floor. “Just go easy with me, John. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”  John smiled and pulled Sherlock down on top of him.    
  
They kissed again, slower this time, each wanting to delve into every crevasse. Sherlock soon lost himself in the absolute pleasure, marveling that he was supposed to deny this. John felt like heaven in his arms.  
  
He fumbled a bit trying to undo the knot of the tie, causing him to giggle nervously. John smiled benignly and helped him. Soon they were both in the nude and Sherlock began his cautious exploration of John’s taut, lithe body. The silkiness of his skin felt wonderful against his own. John traced his fingertips along Sherlock’s spine as he kissed his neck, pressing his lips into the hollow of his neck. Gently, he guided Sherlock onto his back and he straddled his hips. The older man moaned involuntarily when John dipped his head down to circle around his nipple with his tongue.    
  
With each groan he extracted, John grew bolder. He moved lower, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses down his stomach. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hands in his own just as he took Sherlock’s hard organ in his mouth, plunging down quickly.    
  
Sherlock cried out, his entire body tensed up as John swallowed him. His back arched off of the floor and his hips bucked. “Oh Jesus!”  He looked down and met John’s eyes. He managed a smile before John plunged down again sending him off into vivid realms of ecstasy.    
  
John had dreamt of this so many times. The reality of it was more than he could have wished for. Sherlock’s low moans and occasional gasps spurred him on. He quickened his pace – each flick of the tongue, each time he tightened his lips around his swollen member, Sherlock shuddered and called out John’s name. He reached below and cupped his testicles, massaging them gently as he glided down the length of his slick cock faster and faster.  
  
Sherlock never knew such an amazing feeling. So this was what the human body was capable of and what a fool he’d been to deny it. Sherlock curled his fingers in John’s hair, bucking wildly as an intense rush of heat flooded his body. Warm jets of cum streamed over John’s face as he screamed, his shouts echoing and bouncing off the walls. With ragged breath he laid there, trying to collect himself.    
  
John moved up and nestled into his embrace. He didn’t want to let go now that they’d come this far. He still held the fear that the priest in Sherlock would come to his senses and kick him out again. He wasn’t sure he would survive such a loss again.  
  
Sherlock lazily caressed John’s shoulders and arms. He didn’t grapple with God now. He didn’t care. John became his God.  
  



	8. Go Be Happy

John lay curled next to Sherlock, nestled in his embrace, sound asleep. Sherlock, however was far from tired. His mind raced down a thousand roads as he watched the rise and fall of John's chest. His eyes traced the contours of John's body, pausing now and again to burn the images on his brain to create the perfect memory to cherish.  
  
John stirred. He raised a heavy eye and caught Sherlock looking at him. With a sleepy smile he wrapped his arms tighter around the priest and fell back asleep to the beat of Sherlock's heart. He waited a little while before extricating himself as gently as possible from the sleeping singer. He should be more tired himself, but he suffered from information overload. What had he done?  He had broken his vow to God, yet he strangely felt little guilt. Perhaps he had been coming to the conclusion for a long time now that God did not mean for man to suffer celibacy in his name. Perhaps that is why he gave in to temptation so easily.  
  
God is love. God is not discerning and judgmental - those are the faults of man. The teachings of the bible are merely that: teachings - simple life lessons meant as a guideline for living life as a good and true human being; nothing more than fables not to be taken so literally. Sherlock felt he had given enough of his life to God and he felt no remorse at this. However, he could no longer remain a priest, not after everything he'd just done.  
  
A sliver of light broke through the drapes in the small kitchen of the rectory. He busied himself, making coffee, puttering around the kitchen. Soon he would have to begin preparations for morning Mass but he wasn't sure he could go through with it - not with John naked and asleep in his bed. Perhaps it was best he make an appointment with the Bishop as soon as possible. He smiled as he sipped his coffee, eager for John to wake up so he could tell him of his decision.  
  
As if he sensed Sherlock's thoughts, John wandered into the kitchen and sat down on Sherlock's lap.  
  
"Good morning." Sherlock grinned and nuzzled John's neck.  
  
"Hi there…" John felt a little exposed. He knew what they'd done was taboo, and he'd woken up unsure of what Sherlock's mood would be in the light of day. Reassurance came in the form of light kisses on his neck and he shut his eyes, sighing happily.  
  
"I think I'd better leave before someone catches us Sherlock… That wouldn't do at all."  
  
"No it wouldn't I suppose… Before you go though, John, there's something I need to tell you."  
  
John held his breath. “ _This is where he tells me thanks for the fuck but I'm not worth giving up that useless God of his,_ ” he thought as he braced himself for it.  
  
"John I obviously cannot continue in my vocation as priest. I couldn't live with myself if I carried on with it, it would be hypocritical of me. Lately, I've been wrestling with my own notions of what God represents to me and I'm almost certain that his will is not to inflict pain and longing. How can a God who is supposed to represent love and peace also demand sacrifice and pain from his servants?  I don't believe that is his plan."  Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I guess what I'm trying to say, in my rambling, babbling sort of way is that I love you… I want to be with you, take care of you, and protect you. I'm leaving the church."  
  
John was overcome with emotion. He flung his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight. This was too good to be true!  His Sherlock - he could say that now - his Sherlock would give up Holy Mother Church for him!  "My God Sherlock…" was all he could manage to blurt out before Sherlock's lips crushed against his own.

\-------------

Later that day John floated about his flat, his head in the clouds as he replayed the morning's events in his head. He still couldn't believe Sherlock would make such a sacrifice for him. He'd never felt like he had any worth. He was someone to use and abuse and he'd long ago resigned himself to that. No amount of fame or money had given him the happiness he craved with Sherlock.  
  
"And now he's mine!" he said to the empty room. John giggled and went for a shower.  
  
A knock on the door. John hurriedly wrapped a towel around his waist before letting Stamford in.  
  
"Hello mate!" he said as he grasped Mike’s shoulders and grinned his widest smile.  
  
"You're in a good mood! What gives?"  
  
John grinned. "I'm in love." he said simply.  
  
Stamford had heard this before. "Well out with it then. Who is it this time?"  
  
"My own true love, Stamford. The real deal. It's Sherlock." John watched Mike's face for a reaction. Stamford and Greg both knew the history there. They had watched John agonize over the priest, listened to him moan, held him while he cried. Stamford was leery to say the least.  
  
"John, haven't you been through enough over that man?  You've got to get over him!"  
  
"Of course! You don't know do you?" Stamford looked puzzled. "Yesterday, after the interview I went to Sherlock's church dressed to the nine's. I wanted to walk in, show him that I was fine without him. But Mike, I wasn't. And apparently he wasn't so fine without me either. We spent the night together and God Mike… It was everything I'd ever dreamed. He-"  
  
"I don't need to hear details John, I get you."  
  
John blushed. "Right… sorry. Anyway the short of it is that he loves me and we're going to be together. Isn't it marvelous?"    
  
"I suppose…  This is awfully sudden isn't it?"  
  
"Oh who cares. I'm happy for once. Let me enjoy it."  
  
Stamford couldn't help but laugh. "All right John, you go on and be happy, I won't stop you. You'd better go get ready, we've got rehearsal in an hour."  
  



	9. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

John and Sherlock managed to keep their relationship quiet for several months. It was quite easy to do considering John had to tour a lot of the time to support the band's first album. He never went to bed without a quick call to Sherlock. His velvet tones rang in his ears before he drifted off to sleep. When they had a spare day or two, John would rush off to spend it with Sherlock. He'd never been so happy. So this is what it's like to be in love, he often thought to himself.  
  
Their gigs were energetic and lively and the band won fans everywhere they went. John found it easy to leave behind his world of drugs and alcohol. He didn't need them anymore. Groupies were disappointed when John expressed no interest in a quick fuck in the dressing room. He was polite, but left the casual sex to Stamford and Greg. Instead he filled his off-time writing long emails to Sherlock, or reading the ones Sherlock sent in reply. John frequently made his bandmates ill with his mushiness as he read them aloud.

\----------

Finally they were back in the UK, playing a few dates. John was ecstatic because now he could spend every waking minute with Sherlock. Greg and Stamford indulged him and left him to it, knowing that a happy John was a happy band. Stamford in particular was glad for John, knowing what he did about John's troubled past.

\------------

It was the Brixton show that changed everything. The evening started off as normal - apart from Sherlock running late getting to the gig. Since they'd come back to England, Sherlock had become a fixture at the gigs and it was unusual not to see him there by show time.    
  
"John, he'll be here don't worry. But we've got to go on - Ultrasound's finished and the natives are restless. Come on!"  Stamford coaxed. With a sigh John followed.

\-------------

"Thank you very much! Thank you for your extremely warm welcome!"  John yelled to the chanting fans. He grinned at Stamford - three encores!  
  
He made his way off stage his eyes searching for Sherlock. Maybe he was in the dressing room. He stopped off at the backstage bar and grabbed a bottled water, pausing to drink it down. His throat was always so scratchy after a show and he didn't want Sherlock to give him grief for it. On his way he was stopped by some record executives for a bit, gushing about the album and how well it was going. Pointedly looking at his watch, he broke free and finally wandered into the dressing room where Greg and Stamford were waiting for him. He looked around.  
  
"Where's Sherlock?  I can't believe he missed our last gig!" He pouted, pretending to be angry.  
  
Stamford looked at him, eyes blurred with tears. "John… There's been an accident."  
  
At those words, the bottom fell out of John's world. Stamford caught him as his knees gave out. Greg scrambled to help Stamford get him over to the ratty old sofa.  
  
"Is he okay? What the hell happened? I've got to go to him."  He moved to get up but Steve placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.  
  
"John, he's gone."  
  
'What? That can't be… There must be some mistake!"  
  
Stamford took John's hand. "I'm so sorry John. So sorry. He must have been on his way here. His cab was involved in a head-on collision. He… He didn't make it. He didn't make it."  Stamford broke down and cried.  
  
"No! I don't believe it. I refuse to."  John's voice was calm, but when he looked up at Greg, the tears formed. "It's not true…" he whispered.  
  
"Oh God John I'm so sorry." said Greg.  

\----------------

John stood on the outcropping of rocks, a lone figure against a backdrop of gray sky. A wave of coastal fog drifted in, threatening to swallow him whole. Waves battered the rocks at his feet but he had no fear of them. He had another purpose today. He stared out at the unrelenting sea as wave after wave of tears streamed down his face. He came here to say his goodbyes and yet something held him back. He clutched tightly at the box in his arms, not quite ready to let go. He took a deep breath and filled his body with a kind of hard resolve.  
  
Opening up the box, he stared in a kind of morbid fascination at the ashes inside. Amazing to think that the contents of the box had once been a vibrant human being. John started to let his mind wander back to the last time he'd seen him but the pain was still too fresh. With a quick movement, John released the ashes into the sea, sobbing as he did it.  
  
"Goodbye…" he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit Thornbirds-ish, without all the Aussie stuff. It's also pretty angsty. I never thought I'd write an AU, especially in this sort of world of musicians and priests. I think I might have a bit of a kink though.
> 
> The crazy-talented [Splunge4me2](http://splunge4me2.tumblr.com/) drew [this beautiful portrait of Sherlock as a priest](http://ohmysaintedpyjamas.tumblr.com/post/63132969636/look-at-this-piece-of-gorgeous-this-was-created). I am blown away by its beauty.


End file.
